


Funeral for a Friend

by aralias



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Episode Related, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-20
Updated: 2011-04-20
Packaged: 2017-10-18 10:35:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/188051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/pseuds/aralias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aa short scene that might not have happened before Sam took his definitive step at the end of LoM 2.08. Spoilers for A2A 1.01.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Funeral for a Friend

Someone is shouting as Sam stumbles out of the conference room into the corridor. 2006: proper procedure, better technology and so many discontented members of the public with better ideas on how the city should be run than the police. _No respect for the law_ , as Gene would have said. Of course, no one shouted in his station except the Guv himself and Sam, because Sam came from somewhere else and couldn’t be convinced that things ran differently. Funny how he’d forgotten it used to be like this. Not Utopia after all.

Everything is slightly different from how he remembers it. The walls in this corridor, for example, are grey, but they used to be white, he’s almost sure of it. It’s possible there was a re-paint whilst he was ‘out’, but perhaps they were always grey. He leans in close to the wall and inhales. It doesn’t smell like new paint. _Fuck._

He sinks to the ground. People are looking at him like he’s a mental case anyway, what with the peering at the walls, and he could do with less of a drop should consciousness give out on him. His left thumb is still bleeding and the cuff of his sleeve is bright red. When he puts the thumb in his mouth, feeling like a small child sitting in a corner, he can taste the usual metallic tang, but faintly. It tastes like a memory of the taste of blood.

 _This has got to be normal,_ Sam thinks, desperately. When you wake up from a coma, this must what it’s like. Bound to be some residual brain damage. Bound to be.

It is not really a comforting thought when you think about it. He tries focusing on other things. The tapping of passing heels, the man in the interrogation room shouting: “don’t tell me to sit down”, the absence of dust. Everything is too clean here and, after the grime of 1973, it all seems unused, unreal. The shouting has definitely become louder actually, like the door’s been left open to aid someone’s escape, and now he can hear what must be the arresting officer murmuring platitudes, before the other man interrupts him. “Listen, you young idiot, this used to be my station. So when I say, get me someone old enough to shave, you should bloody well hop to it before I smash your smug face through this shiny table. _Understand,_ or do you want me to write it down for you?”

Sam smiles to himself. He thinks: _that’s it. I’m actually mad._ There’s no way that he would be- just- no way.

Still, what if it was?

He pushes himself to his feet and half walks, half runs around the corner, in time to see a young officer exiting interrogation room, number 2. “No, I understand. I’ll just get someone for you, Mr Hunt.”

“ _Hey,_ ” Sam calls after him from the other end of the corridor. “Excuse me, PC-” damn it. What is the man’s name? He used to know everyone. “PC Spenser.”

“PC Steadman, sir. Adam.”

“Yes, right. Sorry. Adam Steadman, of course.” Sam shakes his head to imply his own culpability. “Listen, would you mind if I dealt with Mr… Hunt, was it?”

“Really? No, go ahead,” the kid says, looking incredibly relieved. “He comes in once a week yelling about something or other like he owns the place. We usually flip a coin over who has to take him.”

“Well, you know what it’s like with ex-coppers,” Sam says lightly. “You never really quit the job, do you? Anyway… I’d better… ” He gestures towards the door with his head.

The officer nods. “Righto. Call me if you need anything.”

“Thanks,” Sam says and grasps the door-handle firmly, partly to steady himself, partly to make sure it stays in this reality for a bit longer. He turns back to Adam Steadman, not Spenser. “Actually, could you see if you can find any pink wafers?”

“Pink wafers. No problem, sir.”

Clearly someone has asked that his every whim be indulged whilst he’s finding his feet again. Sam smiles thinly, opens the door and walks into the interrogation room.

It is the same room they used to question Raimes. There is a man standing by the big windows, hands clasped behind his back, surveying the city like it’s his own personal kingdom. At the click of the closing door he turns around and, against all laws of probability, it is Gene Hunt. Older: at least 70, and missing half his left ear, but definitely Gene Hunt, standing here in 2006 as if it’s a perfectly reasonable thing for him to be doing.

“Well, well, well,” he says, slowly. “DI Tyler.”

“It’s… DCI Tyler actually,” Sam says, because _thank God, I thought you were a tumour_ sounds like something a mad person would say. “I hear you’re making trouble. As usual.” Then he grins broadly, because Gene is here, and because he can feel a sharp pain in his left thumb.

Gene doesn’t smile back. He has gone very pale, and Sam, afraid that he might fall, starts towards him. “Guv? Are you all right?” He sets a hand gingerly on the very familiar, strangely old, shoulder. “I know this must be a bit,” he begins, before Gene pulls him roughly into a hug that threatens to suffocate him. He is released almost as suddenly and Gene turns back to his inspection of Manchester. He is shaking slightly and he looks old, Sam realises, not just older.

Sam blinks hard to make sure that this isn’t another bizarre coma-hallucination. When nothing changes, he says: “Well. That was unexpected.”

“How about this then?” Gene says, and punches him in the stomach.

“ _Jesus._ ” Sam staggers and falls against the wall. “Fuck. What was that for?”

Gene looms over him. “Where the bloody hell have you been?”

Sam holds out his hands, weakly. “I went for back-up,” he says, aware that this unlikely to pacify a man who has held this grudge for thirty-three years. “I was going to come back.”

“You _went for back up_ ”, Gene repeats. He makes it sound like the suggestion of a lunatic.

“Yes. Back up. I didn’t fancy dying in there, did you?”

Gene gives him a sharp kick to the ribs. “I was your fucking back up, you moron. You were supposed to _wait_ for me, not piss off on your own.”

 _“What are you on about?”_

“You. Driving off after those bastards from the jewellery store. Any internal bells ringing yet?”

 _“No.”_

“Everyone assumed you were dead,” Gene continues. “We held a funeral for you. I read some poetry. Chris sang. It was very moving, and you’ve been alive all this time. I feel like killing you myself.”

Sam groans. “I think you might have already shut down my kidneys actually.”

“Good,” Gene says gruffly. He paces away and then returns. He says, “why did you leave us, Sam?” but in the same voice he once asked Harry Woolf about his own betrayal before shooting the man in the leg.

“I didn’t,” Sam says. “I mean, I haven’t. It’s hard to explain. That hasn’t happened yet.” Gene makes an impatient noise of disbelief. “Guv, look at me. Do I look like I’m… what, sixty years old?” He pushes himself into a sitting position. “I’m 37. The last thing I remember is the wages blag. I went to get help from Morgan and then I woke up here. I swear to you… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Then, because Gene looks like he’s seriously considering stepping on him, Sam kicks the Guv’s legs out from underneath him. The other man lands with a loud thump that knocks the air out of him.

“Enough?” Sam rolls painfully to his side as Gene wheezes next to him.

“… _Bastard.”_

“OK,” Sam says. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He starts to laugh.

*

It takes a while to pull himself together. Gene hauls himself up into one of the chairs designated for the interrogators; Sam remains on the too-clean floor. He fingers his ribs, none of which seem to be broken. “You know, you could get into serious trouble for assaulting a senior police officer inside his own station,” he points out.

“Well, _you_ could get into serious trouble for assaulting a harmless old pensioner,” Gene retorts.

Sam tilts his head and grins. “Actually, I think they’d give me a medal.”

“Ha bloody ha. Aren’t you running out of room on your lapels?"

“No. I was, but then I bought this new jacket.”

There is a knock at the door, and they both say “yes?” at the same time.

“Excuse me, Hunt, but I think you’ll find this is my station,” Sam says, as the door is opened by PC Adam Steadman. “I get to say _yes_.”

“Who’s in the chair though? Who’s in the driving seat, as it were? No, I’m afraid you’ve been deposed by a worthier man, Sammy boy” Gene says. “ _What_?” he barks at Steadman.

“I’ve brought DCI Tyler his bisc- I’m sorry, but are you all right, sir?”

Sam nods. “Yes. Fine, thank you.” He holds out a hand for the wafers.

“Well, off you go then,” Gene says, when the young man still shows no signs of leaving.

Sam gets up and closes the door after him. “Pink wafer?” he offers, sitting down in the chair opposite Gene.

“I’d prefer something stronger.”

“Well, it’s pink wafers or nothing.”

“God, your prissy station is useless,” Gene says, but he reaches over and pulls one of the biscuits from the packet. He eats three before he says: "so you're a time traveller.”

“I know. Unbelievable, isn’t it?”

Gene gives a slight shrug. “Not really. I always knew you were a bit weird. Makes sense that you’d come from a place like this, where they don’t even allow booze in the station.”

“Thanks,” Sam says. “That’s comforting.”

“Well, you know. I’m just surprised I didn’t think of time travel before: brain like mine. So,” he thumps the table, suddenly cheerful. “How does it work, then?”

“No idea. I thought I’d just made you lot up until 20 minutes ago.”

“Not much of a starting point.”

“No, I know. But there must be a way. I left during the wages blag, but I didn’t in your timeline, right? Which means I must have found a way back somehow.”

Gene raises his eyebrows. “You’re going back.”

“Well, of course,” Sam says. “I can’t just leave you to die, now can I?”

The Guv seems fighting a smile. "Thank you,” he says. Sam reaches over to grip his hand, but it is pulled away. “No need for that,” Gene grunts.

Sam sighs. “You’re welcome.”

Sitting here, opposite someone from the wrong era, he is absurdly reminded of the time Annie’s ex-boyfriend pretended to be a hypnotherapist from the future and accidentally convinced him to jump off the roof of the police station. Even now, after tracking him down and punching Neil in the face, Sam isn’t entirely convinced that he was never talking to someone from this time. Even now, with Gene here, large as life, leaving pink crumbs on the table, he isn’t entirely convinced that he imagining it all. The mind can play funny tricks on you when it wants you to keep you where you don’t belong.

And, suddenly, he knows what he has to do. He gets up from the chair quickly and heads for the door.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Gene demands, trying to get to his feet. “Tyler? Don’t you run out on me again.”

Sam pauses. He smiles. “I’ve figured it out. I have to take the definitive step,” he says. “I’m coming back, Gene, I promise. See you in 1973.”

And then he runs.


End file.
